


Two Guys You Wouldn't Introduce To Your Parents

by ginwrites



Category: Just Cause (Video Games)
Genre: Dry Humping, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Radio, Rare Fandoms, Rare Pairings, Semi-Public Sex, teehee, watch me get invested in another non-existant fandom and another non-existant pairing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-10-21 01:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17633606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginwrites/pseuds/ginwrites
Summary: Every single day, the nation of Solís listens to Thiago and Santiago bicker live on the air about anything and everything. To say there's some unexplored tension between them is an understatement to say the least.





	1. Chapter 1

“We not taking calls today?” Santiago enquires, surprised as his co-host shifts immediately to adverts after their brief segment of Solís Hoy.

“No, señor,” Thiago glares at him furiously, “What the _hell_ kinda calls do you think we’re gonna get after _that_?”

Santiago holds up both hands in a gesture of placation even though he doesn't regret a single thing he said on the air.

“No lo _sé_ , Thiago, and we’re not gonna find out if you ignore the phone lines.”

“Agh, go eat a dick.”

“Seriously, this is a hostile work environment,” Santiago declares, amused, getting to his feet to leave the room.

To his surprise, Thiago gets out of his comfortable chair too, and hovers just out of range of the mics.

“You gonna go cry to Rafael about it?” he demands, and for a second he looks as though he's about to push himself into the small space between Santiago and the door.

“Rafael’s on break. I’m going to get coffee,” the older radio host responds, raised eyebrows and superior tone laid on thick to signify his utter disbelief, “You gonna stop me?”

That appears to take the wind out of Thiago's sails a little. “N-no... I just think you should... be a bit more respectful.”

His last words come out mumbled—not just that, but he's barely able to look at Santiago. When they're on the air it's so _easy_ for him to come up with endless retorts to Santiago's theories, always so eager to mimic the state line on every issue, but when it’s just the two of them talking he looks much less assured. Maybe some small part of his already tiny brain knows the truth about what goes on behind the façade in Solís, Santiago considers, but it’s hard to imagine when he witnesses the man’s blind, unquestioning obedience every single day.

“Perdóneme, I didn’t quite catch that,” is Santiago’s sarcastic response.

He wants to see how far he can truly push the man, and they have more than enough time to chat while the ‘Jóvenes Y Bellos’ preview is playing. Thiago’s hands ball into fists at his sides, he’s clenching his teeth, and even though Santiago ought to see it coming, he’s somehow unprepared for the younger man to be staring daggers at him as he indeed pushes himself squarely in front of the door.

“I need coffee!” Santiago exclaims, outraged but laughing.

“I’m serious, Santiago,” Thiago gets out through those clenched teeth, “We can’t _afford_ to lose another sponsor. And even if we _could_ , enh, it’s stupid to piss off a corporation like Grupo Prospero.”

“I’m serious, too, Thiago,” he throws back, his amusement replaced with the slow, patronising tone of an impatient person forced to explain a basic fact to a small child, “I don’t understand why they advertise with us. It just doesn’t make any _sense_. Which of our listeners are likely to wanna buy Black Hand grade military equipment, huh?”

“Like I said,” grunts Thiago irritably, “Maybe it’s a public service announcement, or, or...”

“Or?” Santiago hears himself demand with sudden voracity.

He himself is surprised when he lurches forward to place his hand, palm flat and tense, against the door next to his co-host's head. Thiago is taller than him, and could easily get away, but he looks flummoxed by the display of hostility. People like him always _are_ , Santiago thinks, furious it's taken him this long. _Sheep_ , the whole lot of them. To think once upon a time the two of them had been friends, bright-eyed and optimistic, starting this terrible radio show together... but then, Santiago had been a Black Hand, too, once. Times change; he knows that better than anyone.

“W-what d’you think you’re doing?” the sheep of a man stammers, flattening himself against the door as though Santiago's likely to attack him at any moment.

It makes him chuckle derisively in response. He knows he’s being unkind— _cruel_ , even—but he can’t help it. There’s too much frustration pent up inside from being talked over, corrected, doubted, all these years.

“ _You’re_ the one who brought up ‘respect’, parcero,” he murmurs, leaning in so he can keep his voice low, “How about you start showing _me_ some?”

As he looks on, Thiago’s cheeks begin to stain a deep cherry red. Suddenly he can’t meet his gaze anymore, and if it were possible to make himself any smaller he probably would. He opens his mouth to retort something, but no sound comes out, so he closes it again, like a fish on land, gasping for air. It's clear he's absolutely _furious_ at Santiago, for everything he said on the air earlier, for finally growing a pair, for the way he's talking to him—but there's something else, too. At first he can't place it, partly because he's too busy soaking in this glorious moment that's likely to cost him dearly later on, then it dawns on him. The look Thiago's giving him, or forcibly _not_ giving him by fixing his gaze squarely below Santiago's left ear, isn't one he's seen on the man's face before. He's totally red now, even his neck is turning pink. He's mortified—no, he's _flustered_. The most shameless man Santiago has ever had the displeasure of working with is flattened against the door to their recording booth, and he's fucking _flustered_.

“I—but I _do_ ,” he finally manages, still averting his gaze, “I _do_ r-respect you.”

“Far from it!” Santiago shoots back without hesitation.

This is too good. There's too much flooding his brain right now to think about the repercussions this might have, to consider what might happen if a whiff of this ever got out. Santiago places his other palm on the other side of Thiago's head, faster this time. It makes a metallic ‘clang’ and Thiago, to his credit, doesn't flinch, but his eyes follow the movement before flicking back to Santiago's face. His eyes are huge, his _pupils_ are huge, like he's been smoking something non-government approved, and they're unfocused somehow, darting around like he's looking for an exit and can't stop himself from gazing at his co-host all at the same time.

“If you respected me,” Santiago ploughs on mercilessly, “You wouldn’t talk over me every chance you get. You wouldn’t recite policy back at me like a fucking _sheep_ and call me a _traitor_ for all of Solís to hear. You would back me up every once in a while! _¿Comprendes?_ ”

He brings his face even closer to Thiago, feels the heat of his mortified blush practically radiate off him. This time, he _does_ flinch. It's when Santiago swears at him that a little wince escapes him, quiet and pitiful. He turns his head away, prompting Santiago to get even closer, literally breathing down his neck now. In all his years at the station—‘influencing a nation’ as Rafael put it so inaptly—he has never _once_ felt this powerful. It’s an intoxicating feeling, one he isn’t looking forward to relinquishing once the pre-recorded interview that's now playing inevitably comes to an end and they’re required to go back on the air again. Even Santiago is surprised at the other man’s response.

“S-sí...” Thiago whispers, barely audible and breathy, “I get it.”

The voice he’s using is as unfamiliar to Santiago as the expression on his face is. He sounds abashed, like when he’s just managed to mess up yet another interview, or when a listener calls in to ask him an uncomfortably private question, but he’s _breathless_. He still looks flustered. Then his eyes dart back to Santiago’s face, not his eyes, but his _mouth_ , and it finally clicks.

“Holy shit. You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

This time, there’s no hesitation from Thiago. “No! _W-what?!_ ”

Appropriate outrage clouds his embarrassment for a moment, but now that Santiago’s seen the truth, now that it’s dawned on him, he can’t _not_ see it. The way Thiago’s eyelids are fluttering, the way he keeps averting his gaze shyly before getting drawn back in—it’s _textbook_ , and it’s completely and utterly baffling. Everything Santiago does next is on instinct, without the first thought put into it. He shoves his knee between Thiago’s own, pressing him up against the wall. The noise he makes then isn’t so much a wince as it is a yelp.

“ _Oye_ , stop! I’m not—I’m not _gay!_ ” he protests, but his voice is hoarse and he doesn’t make a move to get away or push Santiago off him.

Instead his legs clamp tightly together, holding Santiago where he is. Of course, _Santiago’s_ known he’s gay since he was a teenager, and was pretty open about it until joining the Black Hand. After leaving service he decided to keep his private life, well, _private_ . With his eyes opened to all that goes on in Solís, he wants give them as little ammunition against him as possible. All in all he's not unhappy. The occasional fling here or there—where there’s old money there are _always_ men who like men, even on this ass-backward island—diluted by the occasional ‘date’ with a notably younger woman to keep the tabloids at bay. He’s always been sure Thiago knows, or at least has an inkling about his sexual preferences, and this more or less confirms it.

“What exactly do you think I’m gonna _do_ to you, enh?” he demands.

There’s a twisted feeling in the pit of his stomach; he feels nauseated and excited all at once and he doesn’t know what to do with himself all of a sudden. He knows it’s too late to back out and pretend he didn’t mean anything by it, that he didn’t pick up on what was written all over his co-host’s flushed face, but it’s not like he’s going to force himself on the man. Even he hasn’t sunk _that_ low. No matter how much Thiago gets under his skin every day, he doesn’t deserve that; _no one_ does. So he just stands there like a statue, dithering like he always does when there’s something he wants. He’s on the verge of overthinking it to the point of backing out, of stammering a muffled apology and pushing aside the taller man to escape the recording booth which suddenly feels very cramped. If he hesitates much longer, the pre-recorded interview will be over, the moment will pass, and the two of them will be in for a very awkward recording session imminently.

He’s just about resigned himself to that fate when all of a sudden it’s Thiago who launches himself forward, stepping away from the door Santiago has him pushed up against and smashing his lips unceremoniously against his own. At first Santiago is so taken aback by it, he hardly reciprocates the kiss. He actually stumbles back a step or two, off-kilter. Then Thiago’s hands are grasping at his lapels, pulling him upright again, and he finally gives into it. He’s almost a little ashamed at how his body melts into Thiago’s, how his lips part and soften for the younger man’s, how easy it is to forget the recording equipment, the studio around them, the stupid city around _that_ with its bustling streets and skyscrapers full of unhappy people.

The way Santiago sees Solís—the way he sees the _world_ —fades into insignificance in the space of a few accelerated heartbeats. Without thinking he has him pinned against the door again, with his whole body this time. Every part of him wants to be pressed up against Thiago, a sensation he can barely believe he’s experiencing even as it’s happening.

Thiago is a clumsy kisser. It’s clear he doesn’t have a whole lot of experience, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm, attacking Santiago with his lips, his tongue, even his teeth. His fingers are curled so tightly around Santiago’s shirt collar he’s worried the fabric might tear, but not worried enough to do anything about it. Instead he shoves his leg between Thiago’s again. This time it elicits neither a flinch nor a wince but an honest-to-God _moan_ , a sound that’s like music to Santiago’s ears. It vibrates through him and _fuck_ , Santiago wishes he could tear his co-worker’s clothes off right then and there. His body feels like it’s on fire, and even though the sensation isn’t unpleasant, he wants _more_ , wants to know what it would feel like to bury himself deep inside Thiago, what kind of noises he’d get out of him then. It doesn’t help that Thiago is bucking his hips against him, causing delicious yet excruciating friction between their lower torsos. Those stupid tight jeans he’s wearing aren’t leaving much to the imagination, either. Santiago made fun of him when he first rocked up to the studio in them and now here he is, feeling the outline of the man’s ass through the rough blue material. He grabs hold of it, squeezing tight, marvelling at its shape and simultaneously at the bizarre nature of the situation.

Their kiss is broken momentarily while Thiago catches his breath, so the shorter man takes the opportunity to bury his face in his neck, to kiss and nibble at the sensitive skin there. His efforts earn another gasp—one that makes him glad for the room’s state-of-the-art sound insulation—followed by a curse that Rafael would _most certainly_ have had to censor had they been on the air. All it does is egg him on. One hand still firmly planted on Thiago’s ass, he shifts the other to the front, feeling for the outline of his cock through the jeans. He’s rock hard, and part of Santiago can’t believe he’s really that hard for _him._ After all, they've spent years bickering, disagreeing about almost every single subject they broach. It doesn’t stop him from palming the impressive member.

“Sant—… Santiago, I—… _Fuck!_ ”

He doesn’t even need to open Thiago’s zipper or remove his cock from his pants to have him thrusting into his hand like an over-excited teenager. It would almost embarrassing how much he’s into this if it wasn’t so goddamn _hot_. Santiago licks along his throat once, feeling the anxious pulse fluttering away beneath the skin. Then Thiago lets out his loudest gasp yet, followed by a little whine as he pushes himself more and more feverishly against Santiago, before his head thuds back limply against the door. When his movements stop he knows Thiago’s come, his chest heaving rapidly still as he leans back against the doorframe, fingers finally releasing their vice-like grip on Santiago’s collar.

It’s not surprising the older man feels a little hard done by. He’s about to demand “And what about _me?!_ ” when a horrible, gut-wrenching ‘click’ announces someone entering the recording booth. They both jump back from the door like they've been scalded and Santiago hurries to adjust his clothing, his ruffled hair. It’s all he can do to hope Thiago is doing the same; he can’t bring himself to look at the man just yet.

When Rafael pops his head around the door to ask if they’re ready to go back on the air, they both nod, evidently afraid their voices might give away remnants of breathlessness. When Rafael goes on to beg him to ease off Grupo Prospero, to keep his opinions to himself at least til the end of the recording session, Santiago hears himself agreeing without argument. Rafael looks surprised but pleased and makes his exit, at which point both presenters let out respective held breaths.

There’s nothing that needs to be said. They take their usual seats by the mics as though nothing out of the ordinary just took place. Santiago shoots a cautious look over at his co-host and is pleased to note his hair is still standing up at the back, from where he had him pressed up against the door moments earlier. His cheeks, too, tell of their recent activities, if only by their slight pink tinge. _Oh_ , how he wants to get back to that, to get rid of the painful erection straining against his own trousers that he hopes to _God_ Rafael didn’t pick up on. Maybe he could get Thiago to give him a blowjob. He’d look _good_ like that, kneeling on the dirty studio carpet, gazing up at him. A cock in his mouth should shut him up for once. He’d love to run his hands through those soft black curls, maybe grab a fistful of them as he pushes himself into the man’s throat and—… this isn’t helping things.

It’s only Rafael’s countdown over his headphones that drags his mind out of the gutter, followed by Thiago’s surprisingly chipper tone: “Welcome back to the Thiago and Santiago Show! I’m Thiago!”

“And that makes _me_ Santiago!” he chimes in with barely any delay, though he thinks the hoarse note to his voice might just about be noticeable to someone who’s _really_ paying attention.

Unperturbed, Thiago carries on: “Now, Santiago, I think it’s about time we took some calls. Don’t you?”

“Really?” Now Santiago’s unable to keep the surprise from his voice, though that isn’t a bad thing, really.

“Sure, parcero. Why not?”

He’s baffled to hear his co-host go back on his stance because that’s just not something he _does_. Thiago might be a sheep, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t a stubborn one. It’s clear that something about their recent encounter has managed to change his mind, and Santiago isn’t about to complain.

“Listener on line number one: You're live with Thiago and Santiago! Why don’t you go ahead and share your thoughts with the nation?”


	2. Chapter 2

“So... when’s everyone else getting here?”

Santiago isn’t keen to be alone with his co-host any more than is absolutely necessary. The irony of that fact doesn’t escape him, but he’s sure Thiago wouldn’t appreciate it in the way _he_ does. It’s concerning, too, the way he’s stood there, tapping the tips of his fingers together in the way he does when Santiago is gearing up to _rightfully_ criticise one of their sponsors. Thiago is _nervous_ , he realises to his dismay, so he quickly proffers the bottle of La Gema. That conjures a smile onto his face—go figure—and Santiago feels somewhat relieved.

“Everyone else... um... about that.”

“I’m listening.” In truth, Santiago’s just about ready to turn on his heel and hightail it out of the apartment. There are a multitude of reasons he’s never been to visit his co-host before, and he has an uneasy feeling a new one might be added to the list in a few short moments. “Don’t tell me they’ve all gone off ‘Diego El Santo’. Not when it’s _such_ a good show!”

The sarcasm dripping off his every word is lost on Thiago, or maybe he’s just taken to ignoring it after their years of working together. “No, not exactly. Turns out it’s not airing tonight. They’re showing that documentary about Black Hand disaster relief on Haiti.”

“Ai, not that propaganda flick _again_ —” Santiago groans, then does something of a comical double take. “Wait, that’s not important. Why didn’t you call? Text?”

“I forgot…?”

“You _forgot_?!”

There’s that sheepish look Thiago usually wears when he’s been caught in a lie or an embellishment of the truth, both on or off the air. Santiago raises his eyebrows. Images flash across his mind of a late morning in the recording booth, of furious kisses muffled by state-of-the-art sound insulation, of friction between them that he has trouble keeping out of his thoughts sometimes, even when they’re live. Could it be that the younger man’s invite tonight was little more than a thinly veiled pretence to get him over to his apartment and pick up where they left off several weeks ago?

“Eso, I forgot. Don’t crucify me, parce.”

“That seems a little too convenient, no?” Santiago retorts, grinning slyly.

Thiago blinks, his face a mask of innocence. “What?”

“The show you invited everyone over for isn’t airing and _I_ just so happen to be the _only_ one you forget to tell? C’mon, Thiago. Subtlety’s never been your forté.”

For some reason Thiago bursts out laughing just then, though he sobers up quickly. He looks amused, yes, but he looks _mean_ , too.

“You think I invited you over here to _seduce_ you? Oh, please.”

Santiago can’t help but feel a little hurt, though he isn’t about to let the younger man see that. “It’s not exactly out of the question after—”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Santiago,” Thiago bites back immediately, “I’m not gay.”

“Riiiiight…” Santiago rolls his eyes.

He can hear the edge in his own voice now, the tone they both use when they’re arguing about something on the air and things stop being all fun and games. A man can only tolerate so much bullshit, Santiago thinks, can only abide so much blind ignorance. If Thiago wants to close his eyes to everything that’s wrong with Espinosa’s regime— _sure_. It’s infuriating, but ultimately there’s nothing he can do about it other than try to appeal to whatever miniscule amount of human decency the man may or may not possess. Pretending like what happened between them wasn’t real is another thing entirely; it feels personal.

It’s embarrassing, really, how angry Santiago sounds, when he asks: “What about when you were getting off against my leg like a _stray dog_ , enh? That was totally straight, was it?”

Thiago’s face is expressionless now. He can’t blame him, really. He’s probably pushed it too far by saying that, by making what happened between them real, by voicing it in _any_ capacity, let alone framing it in such a horrible way. He’s broken their unspoken agreement to never mention that day, and he’s done it in the worst way imaginable. Of course Thiago is furious, but he doesn’t sound it. His voice, when he speaks, is cold and emotionless. Santiago’s never heard him talk like this, and it’s unnerving.

“You wanna know _why_ you’re the only one I didn’t text? Fine. I didn’t text you ‘cause I didn’t think you’d show anyway. You never do. You never _say_ you can’t make it, you just _don’t_. Every single time. I’m just inviting you out of _politeness_ , anyway—it’s not like you’d get on with my friends! Díos mio, no, you’d just get into unnecessary debates with everyone and ruin the mood. So there you go. That’s why I didn’t call, or text, or _arrange my life_ around whether or not you’d show up tonight. Happy now?”

Santiago feels his stomach drop. He doesn’t know why it’s affecting him this much—after all, it’s not like he gives a shit about this man, _or_ his friends—but it is. It feels bad, no, it feels _awful_ knowing that Thiago didn’t even think to uninvite him to something so trivial as a watch party for a show he doesn’t like. He can’t deny he’s never showed up before, never bothered to cancel or make up excuses, to cite other plans that might explain why he can’t attend. It’s all true. What really gets under his skin is ‘I’m just inviting you out of politeness’. They’re _friends_ , aren’t they?

No, Santiago reminds himself. They _were_ friends, once upon a time. Now all they are is co-workers, two men who don’t have a lot to say to each other off the air, and bicker incessantly while they're on it. _He_ doesn’t think of _Thiago_ as a friend, so why does he feel hurt—upset even—upon learning that the feeling’s mutual?

“ _Thrilled_.” he presses out through gritted teeth as he turns on his heel and heads back out the door.

Half of him wants to get out of there as fast as possible; the other half wishes irrationally that Thiago might stop him from leaving. It’s stupid, _God_ , he feels stupid. He feels mean, too, like he forced Thiago into saying those unkind things by being unkind himself. Sure, they haven’t been _nice_ to each other in years, not following the conventional definition of the word, but they’ve not been this spiteful too often. Santiago really does feel sick to his stomach and yeah, okay, maybe he doesn’t want to go home feeling like this—

“Parcero.”

The word is like a peace offering. Santiago lets out an unconsciously held breath, frozen in the doorway. He isn’t sure yet if he wants to turn around or if he wants to head down that staircase and out into early evening Nueva Voz, but he sure as hell is on the fence.

“What d’you say we crack open this bottle at least? Since you brought it.”

Thiago’s words seem to thaw him. He turns around, trying his best not to look _too_ relieved, and nods.

“Sure, why not?”

Soon they’re sat on the couch, each with a glass of Vina La Gema in hand, half-watching the rerun propaganda film that’s the reason Thiago’s favourite show isn’t on tonight. The conversation is stilted to say the least, and they’re sat farther apart than is _strictly_ necessary, but at least they’re not leaving things on those terms. Santiago racks his brain for something to say that might lighten up the atmosphere somehow, but draws a blank. The regretful words they each threw at each other no more than ten minutes prior still hang in the air between them, heavy and unresolved. Beyond that, he’s baffled at his co-host’s sudden change of heart. To change tack like that mid-argument is odd even for someone as fickle as Thiago, but he isn’t about to complain. Despite himself, despite knowing how utterly stupid it is, Santiago feels glad he didn’t leave.

It shouldn’t surprise him, really, that it’s Thiago who finally breaks the awkward silence. He’s always been impossible to shut up.

“How much of ‘Diego El Santo’ have you actually seen?”

“Enh, like half an episode here or there,” Santiago hazards, “The one with the sacrifice at Tumba La—”

“You didn’t start at the _beginning?!_ ” Thiago sounds so outraged it’s almost endearing.

“I’ve read the _books_ , Thiago,” he chuckles, waving a hand dismissively even though he knows by now his fellow presenter won’t possibly let the conversation end there, “I know what happens.”

“Books! Whatever! You don’t get the full… cinematic… ehn…”

The younger man is already on his feet, rummaging through his DVD collection which Santiago notes is filled to the brim with nothing but government-approved entertainment. Of course. With a triumphant grin plastered across his face, he retrieves a ‘Diego El Santo’ Boxset. It’s certainly about as thick as several of the books combined. Thiago doesn’t ask, simply pops the first DVD into the player and settles back down on the couch. He’s sitting a little closer this time, like some of the tension’s escaped the room after all.

Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the show, but Santiago actually starts to feel a little at ease. It’s clear Thiago is totally in his happy place now, and it’s difficult to assign his sudden light-hearted attitude to any kind of fiendish machination when he’s grinning from ear to ear like a kid. He’s even tapping his fingers against the glass excitedly in the lead-up to what must be his favourite scene, at which point he edges a little closer to Santiago, nudges him with his elbow and goes “Eh? _Eh?_ ” repeatedly as though he’s hoping to get a genuine response.

When it fails to, he follows it up with: “What d’you think so far?”

Santiago feigns an exaggerated yawn and when Thiago gasps in outrage he quickly laughs and waves it off.

“I’m just kidding! Although I _am_ wondering if it’s too early to propose a drinking game…”

“Fine!” Thiago huffs. Any faux annoyance he’s showing now is just a faded echo of what came before. “If you’re not gonna take the show seriously, I can at least drink you under the table.”

“You’re kidding.”

In a huff, Thiago grabs the elegant wine glass in a gesture that’s anything but that and takes a large gulp to prove his point, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s just about the least graceful thing Santiago’s seen in his entire life, and he can’t help but laugh.

“You can’t _chug_ Vina La Gema!” he complains, still laughing, “It’s expensive stuff!”

Thiago joins in, shaking his head. “It’s not. It’s supposed to taste like the good stuff but really it’s like red dishwater! Frankly, I’m insulted, parce!”

“Listo. I’ll bring you something fancy next time,” Santiago chuckles.

He shoots a sly glance at his co-host to see if his words have any effect. Much to his delight, Thiago’s cheeks do take on a slight pink tinge—but that could just as well be brought on by the alcohol, however subpar it may be. Nevertheless, Santiago feels emboldened enough to shift a couple inches closer, to drape an arm across the back of the couch in a forcibly nonchalant manner.

“Okay, so. Drink when an actor removes a garment of clothing for no reason,” he begins to list off, “Drink when an actor looks directly into the camera like they’ve never been on a film set before, and uh…”

Defensive of his favourite show, Thiago crosses his arms across his chest. “Oye! It’s not _that_ bad.”

“...and every time something historically inaccurate appears on screen.”

It’s clear that, despite his diehard fanboy attitude, Thiago does possess a hint of awareness when it comes to ‘Diego El Santo’. He chuckles and shakes his head again, but replenishes his empty glass from the bottle, acknowledging that he’ll be drinking again almost immediately. It’s just as well, too, because in an instant the titular character is stripping off his outer garments to jump head first into the Wanay in order to catch fish with his bare hands. Thiago just mutters “Cállate, Santiago,” under his breath, but he drinks anyway. Chuckling in smug satisfaction, Santiago follows suit. Sure, he’s telling him to shut up, but this is already closer to their usual dynamic than the past few weeks have been.

As though witness to their rudimentary drinking game, Diego Espinosa seems to make a point of wearing as little clothing as possible for the remainder of the episode, and it’s not long before the La Gema is empty and Thiago has to fetch some liquor from his well-stocked fridge. It’s clear he’s hurrying and again, despite himself, Santiago finds it endearing.

“Surely you’ve seen it a hundred times…” he teases.

Thiago is unperturbed: “So? The ending’s great. Pay attention!”

“I can pause it, you know.”

“No! It’ll break the flow!”

Now seriously amused, Santiago laughs, and Thiago honest-to-god shushes him. It’s like they’re on the air and Santiago is going off in one of his patented rants. He should be annoyed, he knows that. He should be furious at Thiago for bringing the same strained dynamic they share publicly into such a private space. He shouldn’t be this relieved at the familiarity, and he _most certainly_ shouldn’t be leaning closer to him with every passing minute of mind-numbing television he just can’t seem to focus on.

But what else is he supposed to do? When Thiago’s eyelids are heavy from liquor and keep fluttering in that same, ever-so-coy way that’s already etched into his subconscious? The man himself tilts his head at Santiago—invitingly, almost—then draws it back sharply like someone who’s caught himself dozing off at the wheel.

“You alright?” Santiago asks, and as he does so, ghosts two fingers along his co-host’s upper arm, his shoulder.

There he allows them to hover.

“Uh-huh.”

Thiago shivers. It’s obvious the response is involuntary from the dark pink flush that stains his cheeks seconds later, but the damage is done. Emboldened, Santiago makes contact again, dragging the same two fingers along Thiago’s shoulder, following the tendon that leads to his neck. He can’t help but notice every muscle in Thiago’s body is tense, like a stray cat that’s about to make a death-defying leap from one roof to another. Part of him wants to calm his nerves, tell him they can go as slow as he needs to, that they don’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to. Another far larger part of him is enjoying the tension between them far too much do anything of the sort. Both of them have their faces turned towards the television, but in that moment it could’ve been showing the most riveting documentary in Solís history—Santiago wouldn’t have been able to tell. All of his senses are hyper-focused on the man beside him on the couch, on every noise, every movement, or lack thereof.

Following their slow and tortuous path, Santiago’s fingers find the base of Thiago’s neck. The muscles there are tense too, but he can feel the man’s pulse fluttering beneath his skin as he brushes past. Then come the short, black curls at the nape, dense and soft as down where the rest of his shock of dark hair is far coarser. Threading his fingers through them at last elicits a real reaction from Thiago: he tilts his head back into Santiago’s palm and sighs.

“You can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Me?” Santiago utters innocently, “I’m not doing anything, parce.”

“ _Don’t_.”

Perhaps using their usual, casual term of endearment is a step too far. Thiago’s voice has an unmistakable edge to it, but he doesn’t shift out of the way of his co-host’s slow movements. He’s allowing Santiago to run his hands through his hair, revelling in its texture, even as his face is a mask of reticence.

“Don’t act like this is the most normal thing in the world,” he finally says.

At last, the truth behind his misgivings appears in sharper focus. Santiago slows his hand movements a little, but can’t bring himself to stop them entirely. He’s relishing the feeling of Thiago’s hair, of his tense spine and narrow shoulders, far too much.

“Isn’t it?” Is all he can think to throw back, even though he knows full well Thiago isn’t in the mood for their usual on-air back-and-forth.

“No,” Thiago retorts, sitting up straight and crossing his arms stubbornly, “Because I’m not gay. I don’t know what gave you that idea, but—”

He stops talking, as though expecting to be interrupted. When Santiago does no such thing, his eyes dart around the room, finally settling on the television, which is still showing the exploits of ‘Diego El Santo’.

“If I _was_ gay—…” Again, he pauses before continuing, “If I _was_ , I wouldn’t be gay for _you_ . I’d be gay for someone like—like _that_!” He gestures at the shirtless actor on screen, who is all too happily showing off well-oiled muscles despite the imminent threat of the historically inaccurate Allpa invasion.

“Agh, listo!” Santiago winces dramatically and pulls his hand back. “I get it! If you want me to stop, just _say_ so.”

All of a sudden, and with such speed Santiago barely had time to register what’s happening, Thiago’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. He doesn’t say anything—maybe because all he’s capable of coming up with are backhanded insults—and he doesn’t guide Santiago’s hand back to its place. Instead he swings a leg up and over Santiago’s and puts his full weight on him, straddling his waist. Santiago hears himself gasp for a second before his lips are sealed by Thiago’s own.

Much like their kiss in the recording booth, this isn’t tender, but there’s significantly less anger in it this time. He’s left with the impression that Thiago is trying to prove something—if not to his co-host, then to himself. He tastes of wine as his hands grab feverishly onto Santiago’s lapels, pulling him up and out of his slouched position to meet him, and his whole body is moving in time with the kiss. Santiago’s cheeks grow hot at the realisation that he’s hard already, just from mere sensation of Thiago perched on top of him. He can’t help it. His own hands settle at the other man’s waist at first, then shift to pull him close, trying to reduce the minuscule amount of space between their bodies even further.

When they break from the kiss, Santiago is breathless and oddly compelled to rest his forehead against Thiago’s. He doesn’t. Instead he looks up at him with a quizzical air, trying not to get distracted by how plump and reddened Thiago’s mouth looks after that kiss.

“You’re, ah... you’re really sending me mixed signals here.”

“Ugh.”

Thiago rolls his eyes and for a second Santiago worries he’s going to change his mind and climb right off him. To his relief, he merely shifts on top of him—a movement that does nothing to calm the erection straining against Santiago’s corduroys.

“Not everything has to make sense, Santiago.”

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I found myself listening to copious amounts of Solís Hoy and fell irrevocably in love with the Thiago and Santiago Show. Even though there's only like, what, four segments? Anyway thanks for reading, presumably only reader! There will be more soon. Have a good day <3


End file.
